Dear Home Depot

Dear Home Depot-
Your lack of customer service makes me want to punch a kitten. In the face. Twice.

The saga of renovating a home is never ending. Every time you think you've got something done, something else goes to hell. For instance, we purchased a new bathroom vanity from HD. And the reason we needed a new vanity is because I decided to remove the wallpaper in the bathroom. Yeah, you heard me. I started peeling the wallpaper and somehow hit the lightswitch. The switch arced, popped, and blew a fuse. I asked the Prince (who happens to be incredibly handy) to fix the switch. While he was working on that, I decided to pull the fake wood paneling off the wall. One good yank and I managed to hit the sprayer on the sink and break it which meant the hose dropped down into the vanity and started to leak. The Prince abandoned the lightswitch to investigate the leak only to find that the bottom of the vanity had rotted out and was coated in black mold. Needless to say he solved that problem with a Sawzall and we removed the old vanity piece by moldy piece and headed out to buy a new one. We spent a good hour in the store trying to pick one out, then another hour trying to find someone to get it down from the top most shelf (of course). Eventually a child about the age of 12 came down the aisle with a large, wheeled ladder and a plan to slide the 37" vanity combo down the railings of the stair thing. Brilliant idea. Solid. Thankfully he realized he couldn't do this on his own. So he got another 12 year old to "spot him" so he could slide the vanity down. It took about 10  minutes to convince these brain trusts that this was most likely a BAD IDEA and they should get someone with a lift to come get it so it didn't end up smashed to smithereens. After waiting another hour for someone with a forklift license, as well as someone with a license to operate those little flag thingies, we finally got our vanity.

The next morning we opened the box...and the top was smashed to smithereens. Thanks HD.

Jane Austen Ruined My Life

It's wrong to want to kill 50% of your students...right?


This summer I started teaching at a small independent, for profit college which is a whole new experience like nothing I have ever done before. The environment is completely different as is the student body.


This semester I was asked to teach composition and effective speaking. Obviously composition is a no-brainer and very easy for me teach. Effective Speaking however is a whole other animal. And for some reason the college thought it would be a fun joke to put 30 students in my class. THIRTY. Now I know a lot of elementary school teachers who have to deal with numbers like that on a regular basis but I think I can comfortably say I would much rather have a room full of 30 11-year-olds than a crowd of disgruntled adults who don't want to be taking my class. Technically it's an elective but the students weren't allowed to actually choose their elective. They were just herded into Effective Speaking and told they had to take it.

Last week we discussed censorship, ethics, and responsible speaking. I passed out topics to each table and asked them to come up with discussions, impromptu speeches of a sort, based on each topic. I knew it would spark debate but I was unaware it would lead to an almost bitch fight. Somehow one particular student got off on a tangent about "rednecks", racism, and his love of the hispanic community (he's a skinny white country boy).

So far I have heard from my students that my class is boring. I have also heard every excuse in the book as to why certain individuals can't get up in front of the class and speak (ranging from panic attacks, to passing out, to throwing up). I had one student refuse to do the assignment last night because well, she just refused. Another told me it was all a bunch of bull.

Tonight I took the time to tell my boss my concerns about the attitudes in my class, and to share with him that tonight my room became the great racial divide. My class literally divided themselves into all the white kids on one side, every other ethnicity on the other. Upon discovering this, the skinny white country boy walks in and says, "What is this, a bus?"

Sweetie, only if your name is Rosa Parks. Jackass.

The Money Pit

So I thought for my first day back I would tell you all a little story.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful castle built high upon a hill and surrounded by glorious green forest. In the castle lived a dashing young prince who was desperately seeking his princess...

Oh wait...wrong story. The prince is real but he doesn't have a castle so much as he has a run down old house that would scare the pants off of a small child. His gallant steed is actually a gas guzzling truck and he's more a fan of whiskey than of medieval mead, but I still believe the fairytale comparison holds. The Prince and I met many years ago in high school and the first moral of this story is: first impressions are rarely correct. Especially at the tender age of 14 when I stated, and I quote, "Who him? Pfft. He's a jackass." Yes kids, even princesses swear.

Many years later The Prince invites me to his kingdom to see his regal home. Maybe it was the combination of the giant raccoon size holes in the floor or the sweet aroma of the dumpster outside the restaurant next door, but as I gritted my teeth and tried not to visibly cringe, I fell in love; with The Prince, the house, and his functionally retarded dog.

For the first few months I refused to touch a light switch in that house. Did I mention that I had to reach through bare insulation in order to find the majority of the light switches? The Prince had proudly led me through the house, regaling me with tales of the hardships he had faced while rewiring the whole thing at 1am. That is how I learned that the holes in the ceiling of the royal bedchamber were caused by The Prince falling through from the attic, nearly turning himself into a medieval Eunich. The other moral of this story? Anything can be accomplished under the influence of Evan Williams.

Fast forward a few weeks into royal bliss. Now you all know that I'm a tad- clumsy shall we say. For some reason, in spite of this knowledge, The Prince decided it would be a good idea to allow me to help work on his palace. (Yes, snigger away. I'm sure you all know what's coming.) One afternoon I was happily tearing apart the attic with a hammer and sheer elbow grease. I was prying wooden nailers off the roof joists while sitting on the top of the ladder, which we all know is a big ladder no-no; I was comfortable however so I ignored the stick figure warning on the top rung. I also ignored The Prince's suggestion to get off my lazy ass and get the pry bar from downstairs because if I kept prying away with the hammer something bad was going.....

And that's when both the nailer and the hammer let go. The nailer broke and went flying. The hammer kicked back and smacked me across the bridge of the nose. I fell off the ladder. Well, almost. Thankfully my Prince Charming was there to catch me and make sure I was safe and not bleeding.

Then he laughed at me and called me "Beak" for the rest of the day.

The End.
For now.

"It's been a long time but I'm back in town..."

Yes, you heard right...I'M BACK! Isn't that what you were all wishing for this Christmas? See, I knew it. There's a little change to the web address but really, nothing else has changed. I'm still me. Easter the Cow is still on her throne.

However, in a strange twist of fate, I'm now teaching college. That's right, college. Granted I work at a college that was originally intended to be a strip club but hey, they never got their liquor license and there don't seem to be any poles left in the building so it's legit.

I just finished the first semseter teaching psychology and this semeseter I'm teaching composition and effective speaking. For those of you who have never met me in person, my ability to write far out strips my ability to speak properly. In other words I'm a total idiot when trying to string sentences together verbally. Thankfully my boss doesn't know that yet so shhh, don't tell him!

I'm also in the process of helping to remodel an old Colonial era farmhouse and I have inherited the love of the dumbest beagle known to man. I must run, but stay tuned for the hilarity I know you've all missed!